


The Miserable Times at Musain High

by neverbirds



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, High School, Humor, I'm so sorry, M/M, Multi, no really you don't understand, this is an actual fuckfest of crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbirds/pseuds/neverbirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“He’s still looking at you. He’s biting into a sandwich angrily, I didn’t even know that was possible. He’s angrily eating a sandwich and staring at you.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“What kind of sandwich is it?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Wholemeal bread, with what looks like chicken salad, but don’t take my word for it.” She pauses and frowns. “This is ridiculous. I will not take part in your sandwich war.” </i>
</p><p> <i>“You’re already in too deep,” Valjean says solemnly. </i></p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Valjean steals a sandwich, Enjolras is very enthusiastic about presentations, and Cosette doesn't know if she wants to fuck everybody or for them to just fuck off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Miserable Times at Musain High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harlequinberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequinberry/gifts).



> I would apologise for how this is horrible in every single way, is insanely out of character, and I have essentially taken a first edition copy of the book and pissed all over it. But me and devilberry get stupid ideas when we're drunk and it's hilarious and I'm not even a little bit sorry. 
> 
> p.s nearly every joke is something we said whilst surprisingly sober when watching the film 100 times, the musical, the '78 version, reading the book, and also motherfucking shojo cosette. I love chou chou. Fuck the haters.

PREFACE  
 _So long as there shall exist, by virtue of law and custom, decrees of damnation pronounced by society, artificially creating hells amid the civilisation of the teacher’s lounge, and adding the element of human stupidity to divine destiny; so long as the three great problems of the century - the degradation of man through parent teacher conferences, the corruption of woman through sheer exasperation, the crippling of children through house parties and underage drinking - are unsolved, so long as social hierarchy is possible in any part of the public education system; - in other words, and with a still wider significance, so long as ignorance and high school exist on earth, stories of this nature cannot fail to be of use._  
  


* * *

  
  
It starts with a sandwich.  
  
Actually, what it starts with is a badly calculated downstate transfer of a history teacher, then a series of events he now fondly refers to as ‘the 3rd Edition French Revolution Volume 2 Situation’. It’s really not his fault if the football team got inspired. No, that one wasn’t his fault. Sure, getting his students to make a very loud and very glittery presentation on the American Civil War was a little his fault. The sandwich was definitely, definitely his fault though.  
  
“It was delicious,” Jean Valjean tells Principal Javert, who has gone a lovely shade of maroon. “I can’t even look at you right now because you look like a tomato and that just makes me want another sandwich,” and then he flees from the scene of the crime to his fourth period class. The next day he leaves a note in the fridge that says  _“I.O.U one sandwich, do u like mayonnaise,_ ” but Javert’s eye still twitches every time he passes him in the staff room. The man can really hold a grudge.  
  
“No, he can, though,” Fantine says on the first day back from summer vacation. “You know that really old biology teacher, the one who creaks a little every time he walks? Accidently bumped into him in the hallway once and put him on detention duty for a month.” She waggles her eyebrows ridiculously, “I think he just needs to get laid.” Jean Valjean chokes around his own, not quite as delicious, sandwich, and she pats him on the back absentmindedly before continuing, “do you think he’s a virgin?”  
  
“Child,” Valjean says. “You are a child. You’re worse than my students. Do you know, last year during a discussion of the British Monarchy, Grantaire asked me why five wasn’t an even number.”  
  
“Weed!” Fantine exclaims, suddenly clapping him on the back with way too much vigour for a 110 pound school counsellor. “I think he might just need to smoke a joint and chill out.”  
Valjean places his head in his hand and despairs, but when Javert walks in at 12:07 with his hands clasped behind his back and eyes the fridge suspiciously, he wonders how unethical it would be to buy drugs off his students.  
  
“I feel incredibly uncomfortable right now. Is he looking at me? It feels like he’s looking at me.”  
  
“He’s always looking at you,” Fantine smiles, chin in her hands. “It’s a thing that happens often.”  
  
“I think he just likes to know where I am at all times so I don’t steal another lunchtime treat.”  
  
“You probably shouldn’t have taken the sandwich,” she says. “Besides, you like to see him all riled up. I’m on to you.”  
  
“I have no idea what you mean,” he says, staring at a particularly interesting stain on the wall. Fantine snorts.  
  
“He’s still looking at you. He’s biting into a sandwich angrily, I didn’t even know that was possible. He’s angrily eating a sandwich and staring at you.”  
  
“What kind of sandwich is it?”  
  
“Wholemeal bread, with what looks like chicken salad, but don’t take my word for it.” She pauses and frowns. “This is ridiculous. I will not take part in your sandwich war.”  
  
“You’re already in too deep,” Valjean says solemnly.  
  
“I have to go. Take your bread elsewhere.”  
  
“No, don’t leave! I have the Backstreet Boys in my next class and Enjolras insisted on doing a start of the year presentation. I need a pep talk, or a drink, or something.”  
  
“Film it for me. I’m so sad I missed the glitter explosion of ‘11.”  
  
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that,” Valjean says.  
  
“The other week I thought Cosette was crying but it just turned out she had glitter on her face.”  
  
“This is what I mean. There’s enthusiastic, then there’s disastrously over the top, then there’s Enjolras.”  
  
“I have pictures of Cosette using my lipstick to make you, and I quote, ‘Princess Papa’, that I am ready to unleash upon the world if I get one more student coming to me disheartened with your less than enthusiastic reaction to group projects.”  
  
“Javert had glitter in his hair for _weeks_. He cornered me and told me I was going to hell.”  
  
“I’m sure he’d love to see the princess pictures, actually -”  
  
“For love of all that is holy, Fantine. No.”  
  
“Then for once in your life, give Enjolras an A.”  
  
“What if he cries again?”  
  
“An A for _effort_ , Valjean.”  
  
Valjean purses his lips ridiculously. His whole _life_ is ridiculous.  
  
“I’m going. I have to babyproof the cupboards. And windows. And computer. I’ll see you tonight? If you and Cosette don’t order in Chinese food I’m going to be disappointed.”  
  
“You are a demanding man, Mr Valjean,” Fantine says. She’s already typing distractedly on her phone when he kisses her cheek goodbye, and he swears he can feel Javert’s eyes on him as he leaves.  
  


* * *

  
  
Valjean, upon witnessing an event that he will see every time he closes his eyes, isn’t sure if he’s offended or not.  
  
Enjolras bows, his pipecleaner moustache falling absurdly. He has sellotape stuck to his lip as he grins at him. Valjean carefully takes his home-made ‘fuhrer’ sign and pats him on the head.  
  
“Thank you, Enjolras. That certainly was enlightening.”  
  
“ _Danke._ ”  
  
It was informative, Valjean will give him that. He just didn’t need to see so many of his students shirtless.  
  
“Bahorel, put your clothes on.”  
  
The classroom has gone oddly quiet. Valjean is grateful for the distraction from oddly painted boy-chests for around two or three seconds before he realises it’s because Javert is standing in the doorway, chest heaving and eyes narrowed.  
  
“This is not what it looks like!” he yells, and Javert raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Bahorel, put your clothes on,” the principal says. He does as he’s told and Valjean sighs dramatically.  
  
“See, you do it when _he_  tells you to.” It is an effort to stop himself from pouting.  
  
“Mr Valjean, I hope you realise that having shirtless students in your classroom whilst holding a sign that says ‘fuhrer’ does not look good. What with your already _questionable_  record.”  
  
“It has stars on it!” Valjean says.  
  
Besides, he is fairly certain that taking his sandwich can’t actually be held against him on an official record. He opens his mouth to say so but the silence stretches on so awkwardly that when Javert’s lips quirk upwards in what is nothing but smug self satisfaction, Valjean places the heels of his hands in his eye sockets and breathes heavily.  
  
“Mr Javert,” Enjolras says gravely. “He didn’t undress us. We undressed ourselves.”  
  
Valjean is going to cry.  
  
“It was a symbol!” Combeferre exclaims. “Symbolism is a concept very dear to us.”  
  
“Yes,” Enjolras continues, staring soulfully into the principal's eyes. “Bahorel and Combeferre are the Jews during 1930s Germany. Their lack of clothing is representative of how they have had everything stripped away from them.”  
  
Javert’s mouth is tight lipped and his stare could wilt flowers, but Valjean won’t be wilted. At least, that what he tells himself.  
  
“Whoa,” Grantaire says from the back of the classroom. “ _Intense._ ”  
  
“Valjean,” Javert sighs.  
  
“ _Javert,_ ”  Valjean replies.  
  
“Do try to control your students.”  
  
“Sir! It was our fault, Mr Valjean had no idea there would be nudity in our performance. Should we have forewarned the class? Should we have gotten permission slips from parents?” Enjolras cries, curls falling pathetically into his eyes.  
  
“Have you ever noticed how...  _blonde_  he is?” Eponine whispers without subtlety.  
  
“Tragically blonde,” Graintaire says with a slow smile. “I’m gonna put my dick in that.”  
  
Javert stalks out of the classroom without shutting the door.  
  
“This never happened!” Valjean yells after him. “This _never happened._ ”  
  
“Dude,” Grantaire says. “Dude has issues.”  
  
“He has such a stick up his ass,” Bahorel says, taking his seat now blessedly fully clothed.  
  
“Maybe he _needs_  a stick up his ass,” Says Courfeyrac.  
  
“Guys,” Valjean says slowly. “You do realise we’re doing World War _One_  this semester, right?”  
  
“Oh,” Enjolras is disheartened for a moment before his eyes alight with newfound fire. “Well, we’ll just have to do another presentation tomorrow.”  
  
Valjean places his head in his hands and waits for death.  
  


* * *

~~~~  
Valjean’s plan of ‘ignoring it until it goes away’ works for around four and a half hours until he knocks on Fantine’s door after school has ended and he paced around his classroom pretending to mark essays for a good 35 minutes. She opens the door and laughs until she chokes a little, before letting him past with a bow and a mumbled ‘mein _fuhrer_ ’.  
  
Cosette wordlessly hands him a Tupperware container full of noodles as he sits down next to her.  
  
"Traitor," he points his chopsticks at her viciously. "I am no longer speaking to you."  
  
She bares her teeth at him in what can only be described as a shit eating grin. She grabs the chopsticks and wiggles them.  
  
"Eponine told me. Then Grantaire texted me. Then Combeferre sent me a picture of you crying at your desk."  
  
"Please don't tell me that's on Facebook."  
  
She beams happily. "31 likes."  
  
Fantine comes back and hands them both drinks. She sits next to Cosette and they both smile expectantly at him.  
  
"What?" He asks, immediately regretting it. He's learned that ignorance is bliss.  
  
"Nothing!" They both say airily.  
  
"See, this is why I always hang round here. So I know what you two witches say about me."  
  
"Oh no, we find time."  
  
There is an incredibly awkward silence.  
  
"So, _Cosette_. Any boys in your life?"  
  
"Why, is there one in yours?"  
  
Fantine coughs around her chicken fried rice.  
  
" _No_. So much no. And definitely no underage ones! Shirtless!"  
  
"I was thinking maybe somebody older, very strict, master of the come hither stare."  
  
Valjean glares at Fantine.  
  
“What? We tell each other everything.”  
  
“Oh really? So Cosette, does your mother know about that questionable movie night you spent at Courfeyrac’s?”  
  
“No,” Cosette says with a far too serene demeanor.  
  
“He brought her bra to school the next day. He attached it to a paper airplane.”  
  
“You know, a similar thing happened to me once.”  
  
The girls high five silently without looking at each other.  
  
“Stop trying to distract us. It’s a new year, new beginning. It’s time to reinvent yourself.”  
  
“As the rugged and mysterious teacher with a deep, dark past.”  
  
“Teaching you how to braid your hair is not a deep, dark past, Cosette.”  
  
“Everybody loves a sensitive man. You could go with that angle.”  
  
“I cannot show him any weakness. He would eat me for breakfast.” They raise their eyebrows and he flicks beansprouts at them. “That is not what I meant. And shut up. I don’t _want_  him to eat me. For any meal of the day. Or for a snack.”  
  
“It’s funny,” Cosette stretches languidly on the sofa. “We haven’t mentioned his name once and yet you know exactly who we’re talking about.”  
  
“I am already done with this school year and it’s been one day.  _One day._ ”  
  
“Maybe you could undo the top button on your shirt,” Fantine continues as if nothing has been said. “ _Ooh_ , it sure is hot in here.”  
  
“I _really_  don’t need Javert to have any more reason to think I’m doing one of my students. Really. I don’t.”  
  
“Yes you do,” Cosette grins. “Make him jealous.”  
  
“I regret you every day.”  
  
She sticks her tongue out at him and Fantine laughs.  
  
“As much as I love hearing about your non-existent sex life, papa, I have news.”  
  
“You do realise I know everything that goes on in school because your friends don’t understand the words ‘subtle’ or ‘inappropriate’, right?”  
  
“They’re not my friends,” Cosette’s face falls. “Obviously there’s Eponine and Grantaire texts me sometimes but I think he only does it to piss Enjolras off.”  
  
“Why would that piss Enjolras off? I need new ways to piss Enjolras off.”  
  
“Many reasons, papa,” Cosette says as she pats his head. “The most pressing one right now being that I got made president of the debate club.”  
  
Valjean wishes he could stop grinning like an idiot whenever Cosette is happy. Really, he does. It’s embarrassing and does nothing for his calm and cool exterior. Which he maintains with the upmost dignity, thank you. He pulls a noodle out of his hair.  
  
“I’m probably going to see Enjolras cry again. I’m proud of you.”  
  
“We should celebrate. Lets have a girly night.”  
  
“I’m not participating. I can’t forget and accidently go to school with nail polish on again.”  
  
“There’s a picture of that on facebook, too.”  
  
Valjean simply stretches his lips into the sad smile of a resigned man.  
  
“So, girls,” he claps his hands. “Shall we commence the 6th annual grand betting spectacle?”  
  
They all look at each other with identical, concentrated furrows of the eyebrows. It is not the first time Valjean has wondered if he secretly, somehow, really is related by blood.  
  
“I bet,” Fantine says slowly, “that you will have a nervous breakdown by March.”  
  
“I take your bet and raise you. I think it’ll be by Christmas.”  
  
“You can’t bet against yourself!”  
  
“Why not? Cosette bets that Marius will finally make a move _every year._ ”  
  
“It’s true,” Cosette nods. “It’s his last chance. I’m raising the stakes. This time it’ll be a _whole bag_  of gummy bears.”  
  
“I knew the day of your teenage rebellion would come soon.”  
  
“Does nobody remember that week when I thought I was a punk? Nobody seems to remember that week when I thought I was punk.”  
  
“I remember,” Fantine smiles. “You looked hot.”  
  
“Thanks. Now; I’ll bet that Enjolras and Grantaire will make out on your desk.”  
  
“That is awful. I’m betting against you purely because I don’t actually want that to happen.”  
  
“I bet that you and Javert will have awkward, drunken sex at the next teacher’s night out. Bonus if it’s in the bathroom. Or the back of a car.”  
  
“I really don’t know why you’re betting that because now I don’t actually want that to happen either.”  
  
“Are you saying you _do_  want to have sex with Javert in the back of a car?”  
  
“No! No. But your mother wants me to.”  
  
“So what _are_  you going to bet on, papa?”  
  
“That Javert expels all of NSYNC on Halloween.”  
  
“That’s a good one. I’ll bet against you. Javert is a _soft touch_ , if you know what I mean.”  
  
Valjean finishes filling in the the specially designed spreadsheet for the annual bets that he’s hidden in a folder called “The Tudors Summary v. 2.4” and dutifully ignores Fantine long after Cosette’s excused herself to her bedroom.  
  
The next day at school, Enjolras gives another presentation, complete with a dramatic reenactment of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand right up until a very loud and surprisingly musical signing of the Treaty of Versailles. Grantaire looks like he might fuck Enjolras against the blackboard, Marius is furiously passing notes with Cosette, and when Javert walks stalks past the thankfully fully-clothed presentation he almost looks _fond._  
  
This is going to be a really, _really_  long year, Valjean tells the class. They grin at him.


End file.
